Jeeves and the Rugby Match
by GoddessofSnark
Summary: Or: Grabbing Crotch for Dummies. PG Wodehouse fanfic, Jeeves winds up coerced into a rugby match, and this time, Bertie's the one with the plan.


A/N, it helps to have a bit of rugby knowledge going into this, but for those who have no clue how to play the sport, play tends to being after any sort of stoppage with a scrum-think the start of a down in American Football, where both teams come together, only in Rugby, it's rather more condensed, with all the offensive linemen types hanging on to one another. The front three (Prop, hooker, prop) bind together, with the props, well propping the hooker up underneath the shoulders. The second rows then come in, already hanging on to one another's backs, and they come in between each prop and the hooker, with their outside hands grabbing on to the prop's shorts, generally by the waistband, and generally through the legs, and making it look very much like they're...groping would be the best word for it. The manliest of men, in the most compromising of positions would be the best way to describe the sport. Anyway, on with the fic, do enjoy it.  


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"Oy, Jeeves!" I looked up to see Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps charging towards where I was standing on the outskirts of the spacious fields were my employer was currently doing some overdone manner of stretching. "We need one more, to make even elevens. Do us a favor, will you, old chap?" I opened my mouth to voice that there was no chance that I would even consider the idea, when Mr. Wooster came over to agree with Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps.

"Yes, Jeeves, play why don't you?" I found a rugby ball being hurled in my general direction, and I caught it more out of instinct than any desire to play. "You look like you'd make a decent prop." I shook my head, rather vehement against the idea, but I found myself surrounded by twenty other members of the Drones Club, all of whom were quite eager to even out their numbers.

"Sirs-" The tone was low, and dark, and very clearly stated that while I would stand there and watch them play a sport, I would not participate. Although, truth be told, if there was a sport that I would be caught participating in, it would be rugby. "I will be the first to admit that sport is not my strong suit."

"Nonsense Jeeves, it's rugby, it's not as though it's hard. Run the bloody ball from one end of the pitch to the other, and if someone on the other team has the ball, tackle them to the ground." I was quite familiar with the rules of the sport, but it didn't make me any more eager to participate in their pastime. Instead of being left alone in peace, I found a garish green and white striped shirt being thrust in my direction, as well as an old pair of denim shorts.

"There's a changing room back there." The comment came from one of the other members of the Drones Club that I had yet to be formally introduced to, and I found myself steered in the direction of the changing tent and left alone in it.

"I would really rather not-" I called out, removing the waistcoat regardless.

"You are. As your employer, I command it." Mr. Wooster's tone was light and joking, but it wasn't something to be joked about. Nevertheless, I somehow found myself in the awful outfit, matching the rest of the group on the field, half of whom were wearing green and white, and the other half wearing a hideous red and white.

"Young sirs-" I tried again as I stepped out, but my protests were met with nothing, as I found myself being forcefully dragged out to the center of the pitch, barely giving myself enough time to orient where I was, were I was going, and the who the others in the same hideous colors I was wearing were.

"Jeeves, you're playing, accept it." It was a comment made by Mr. Fink-Nottle, who appeared to be in very much the same position I currently was in. Looking as though he had absolutely no desire to be there as the other team kicked the ball in our direction, where it was quickly fielded by Mr. Bodkin, who got all of four feet before Mr. Glossop tackled him to the ground, and Mr. Wooster easily fielded it. I jogged along behind, attempting to at least _appear_ to be partaking in the game, while staying far to the side of any rucks, and doing my damndest to avoid any passes. Generally by jogging just fast enough to stay ahead of the ball.

It didn't stop Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps from passing to me, regardless. Despite myself being a full ten meters in front of him, Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps had obviously not read the bit in the rulebook about no forward passing behind allowed. "Foward pass!" Someone called, and I had no choice but to sigh as the other twenty men trotted over to where the ball was now laying, dead.

Without even the chance to suggest I play something other than first row, I found Mr. Steggle to have one arm wrapped around my back, glad to know that if _he_ was to be playing, that I and Mr. Wooster were both on his side. His other arm went around Mr. Little, and I had no choice but to offer my own arm to help hold up the smaller man, driving the inside hip in as far as it could go, feeling the head of someone make it up past the knees where it lodged between my own thigh, and Mr. Steggle's hipbone. "What ho, Jeeves." I looked down to find the face of Mr. Wooster staring back at me, and set my teeth.

I suppose that it is at this juncture in the story that I inform the readers that things were about to take, what can only be called in literature, a Very Interesting Turn.

True, with his tall and lanky build, Mr. Wooster was a solid choice for a second row player, considering who the rest of the makeshift team was, the problem lay not with his choice of position, or my being forced into my own, but rather that we were stuck on the same side. And I suddenly found my employer's head nestled against my own thigh, and one hand groping for the top of the waistband of the shorts to give him something to hang on to with the hand that wasn't currently wrapped around Mr. Fink-Nottle, the other man playing lock.

Because, if truth be told in these matters, and I am one who is loathe to admit the truth even under good circumstances, there were feelings that had been stirred that a proper employee should really not feel towards the man who employed him. But when a man of my own ilk is forced into close quarters for a considerable amount of time, with someone quite as charming as Mr. Wooster, it takes someone with a true heart of stone to not feel something, no matter how deeply repressed these feelings become.

So when one finds the object of their repressed feelings suddenly grabbing not very far away from someplace you've wanted them to grab for quite a long while, under rather different circumstances than the circumstances under which you'd prefer them to be grabbing, it takes quite an iron will to force back any impropitious thoughts. Luckily, if I am allowed to brag about myself, I have always been blessed with an iron will. Instead I simply set my feet firmly, sinking down into a low crouch to match Mr. Little, with Mr. Steggles hanging, toes barely touching the ground between us, as Mr. Chuffnell fed the ball in, obviously attempting to aim it in favor of the red shirts. Seeing as the green team had myself, Mr. Steggle, and Mr. Wooster on it, we would have none of that, and I found my feet moving of their own free will as my free hand grabbed the back of the shirt of Mr. Cheesewright, the first row player on the other side of the scrum.

In fact, Mr. Chuffnell's blatant attempt at cheating was just what I needed, as it was something to take my mind off of the fact that Mr. Wooster was currently attempting, if I wasn't entirely positive that he was the sporting type, and thus engaged in the sport, to rip the denim shorts straight off. If it hadn't been for the loose forward next to me-some member of the club that I'd yet to meet-attempting to do just the opposite, there was the potential for quite a bit of embarrassment. As though there could be anything worse than being subjected to playing sport in front of your employer. It was simply not something that a proper valet did.

Although I had stopped being a proper valet, try as hard as I might to attempt to be so, when I was employed by one Bertram Wilberforce Wooster. Who was nothing if not completely unconvential, and who quite enjoyed shoving tradition and the expected out the window.

It was with that thought that I found myself breaking out of the scrum, after Mr. Steggles had been so kind to kick first the other hooker's kneecap, and then the ball back to our own pack. And I found that chasing after the ball, I had forgotton just how enjoyable it was to knock the ball free with a well-timed tackle and back to one's own team, forgotton how pleasurable it was to have some sort of competitive goal with which to focus on. It was quite good for the cleansing of the mind.

I was also taking care that there would be few penalties called, as every time we found ourselves in the midst of a scrummage, it seemed as though Mr. Wooster was getting more and more sloppy with his form setting up for the scrum. After the fifth scrum, I found that Mr. Wooster didn't even attempt to check where his hand was going before it found itself on an elastic waistband, simply instead preferring to grope until he found his target, which was proving to be all sorts of uncomfortable. Luckily, it seemed as though every other one of the men on the pitch was quickly nearing exhaustion, despite us not even having played a full half yet.

So the momentary break to close my eyes, and reaffirm my iron will every time my employer's hand found itself someplace it shouldn't have while setting up for the scrum was only attributed to tiredness, and not to steeling myself against lewd acts while on the pitch. A moment to rest, if only for a second, despite myself only having been taken down once, preferring to pass the ball of to the back line before any of the red shirts happened to get anywhere near enough to tackle yours truly to the ground.

All in all, aside from Mr. Wooster's errant hand, the game was shaping up quite admirably. I was even beginning to forget that I was under the employ of one of the men I was playing with, preferring instead to focus on the game itself, and the best options of what to do, calling back on my primary school days of playing the sport.

But yet, every time someone errantly knocked the ball forward, or happened to forward pass (which was happening at an alarming rate as the game progressed), I found my eyes closed tight, mentally thinking of the most unattractive things I could. Anything to stop my thoughts from drifting to who's head was currently squashed tightly between myself and Mr. Steggle, and who's hand was currently positively groping me, as though he didn't care where he put his hand. I had even taken to grabbing his forearm as soon as it started its journey, and placing it where it was supposed to go, as attempting sport when one is even partially aroused has in it every making of a disaster. Especially when said sport involves all sorts of knees and elbows and feet going flying in all sorts of different directions.

It was really rather frustrating, and rather distracting from the sport at hand. In fact, had it not been Mr. Wooster who found himself being kicked very hard in the nose when attempting to pull the ball out of a ruck, I would have enjoyed the fact that the other men called it a game once the first player got blood binned. "Quite all right, sir?" I'd asked him as soon as I got my hands on a handkerchief that had been with his suit.

"Jub fine Jeebs." It was rather difficult for him to talk through the steady flow of blood out of his nose, and I paused as I looked at him, noticing that the nose was decidedly off center.

"Sir, I do believe your nose is broken." He merely looked up at me, rather much like a lost child, unsure of what to do next. "If you'll bite down for a moment, and allow me?" He nodded, and I reached forward, shifting the bone so that it was at least in line, and wouldn't heal too horribly crooked. It was all I could do to stop my hand from lingering there, gripping his nose, if only for the contact, but there were another twenty lads running about, and I most certainly did not want any of them to be getting any sorts of ideas. It was bad enough I'd been coerced into playing a (rather enjoyable) round of rugby with them. And I had been coerced, I most certainly had not agreed to it.

"Jeebs?"

"Yes sir?"

"I'd think I'd like to go home now." I nodded, and collected my suit from where it had been neatly folded on the sidelines of the pitch, heading towards the changing tent, finding the other twenty chaps all having the same idea. "The sooner the better, you can change at home, can't you? It's half a block, and all through other people's gardens." I sighed for a moment, but considered it. He was in need of ice, and a lie-down, truth be told, and I would have preferred to bathe before changing.

So I followed him back to the flat, and true to his word, we didn't encounter a single person along the way, not until we were fully inside his flat, and I drew the water for a bath in both his own bathroom and my own. The sooner I got these garish garments off both of us, the better. I then set about preparing a bag of ice to set on his nose, hoping that it would keep the swelling down enough that his nose would not wind up crooked.

The grin he sent me when I handed the bag of ice to him was one of those rare, electric ones that he has, spontaneous, and not at all forced, and I hurried away to check on first his bath, than my own. "Jeeves?" The ice was at least having an effect, allowing him to pronounce proper syllables.

"Yes, sir?"

"You should play rugby more often. You're a damn fine prop."

"I don't particularly care much for sport, sir." He shook his head at me.

"Although I'm rubbish at second row, usually play back line." I nodded, but said nothing. "But what, with Gussie playing and all, they needed someone as tall as he was to play with. I wasn't complete rubbish, was I?"

"No sir." Not aside from the wandering hand, he'd done a fair job of keeping the scrum together, and pushing all of us forward towards the ball, allowing Mr. Steggle to make the most of his rather underhanded techniques to get the ball away from the opposition. I stood by the door to his bedroom for a moment. "Your bath is ready, sir." He nodded, and walked past me, into the bedroom, shedding first the shirt, and then the denim fabric, leaving him only in his undergarments. I set his robe out for him, and retreated back to my own quarters and my own waiting bath, ignoring the fact that I was leaving the offending clothing in a trail from my bedroom door to the bathroom. I could pick it up when I was clean, and in considerably better spirits.

I of course, had not planned on leaning my head against the wall when I got into the warm water, enjoying the way it eased away the aches and pains that a grown man running around tackling other grown men brought on, and certainly had not planned on accidentally nodding off in the tub. But after running around for the past hour or so, and dealing with one horribly uncomfortable problem, one is certainly _deserving_ of a nap. Or at least that's what Mr. Wooster had told me when he walked in a good solid half-hour later.

"Good god Jeeves, I'd thought you'd drowned in the bath." The sound of his voice had startled yours truly out of any sort of respite I had been getting, and nearly caused me to jump clean out of the tub.

"Quite sorry, sir. I hadn't meant for it to hap-" I was cut off by the insistent voice of Mr. Wooster talking over my own.

"No need to apologize. You have just been engaged in sport for the past hour or so, and you were gracious enough to take care of the Wooster nose, you're allowed a bit of a nap, don't you think?"

"I think I'm quite well rested now, sir." I was careful to talk to the wall, as I'd noticed when he'd come in that he was still donned only in bathrobe, and the sight of him with his hair dripping wet, well, it was in a word, _arousing._

"Next time, give a chap warning you're about to kip off an take a nap. I was afraid I'd lost you for a moment. That you'd either packed up and left because I forced you into a silly game, or that you'd hit your head and knocked yourself out, or that you'd drowned in the tub-" The normal baritone of Mr. Wooster had cracked ever so slightly as the last option had been named off. "And we all know what sort of a rum situation I'd find myself in if you weren't around to keep saving me. I'd certainly have a crooked nose, if it wasn't for you, and likely be married to some gal I never liked and will never like, with Aunt Agatha ruling my life, and wouldn't eat well at all, and be out all my money from spending it on horrible for me resteraunt food without someone in the house to cook for me, and-" I had been aware, over the course of the rambling speech, that he'd drawn closer to the tub, until he was standing just behind my elbow.

"Sir-" I attempted to cut him off about the time he started prattling on about marriage, but it hadn't worked. "Sir!" I repeated, and it finally cut through to him. I turned my head to see him standing there, staring at me with a strange look in his eye. "Are you quite all right sir? Are you sure you didn't take a knock to the brain as well?" He only tended to ramble like this when he was very drunk, or very nervous. And seeing as far as I knew he wasn't drunk, and he certainly didn't have any reason that I could think of to be nervous, his rambling could only be, as far as I could tell, a symptom of head trauma.

Well, there was a reason why, in hindsight, I know why he was nervous. But at the time, the thought hadn't even come up in my mind. He was my employer, many times engaged to be married, the idea of him being nervous around me, well it was one of those things that doesn't enter a head because they refuse to see it. When one writes something off as being completely unattainable, even when the object is dangling itself in front of in naught but a cap-or in this case, bathrobe-it tends to be swatted out of the way and ignored. Such was the case right then and there, as I could not fathom the idea of Mr. Wooster even beginning down the train of thought that I'd spent so much time down already.

"I'm quite fine, Jeeves. Never felt better. Well, aside from the nose, but I imagine that's going to get better within a few days. You're not going to go drowning in the tub, are you?" I shook my head, and looked towards the towel rack.

"No sir, in fact, I think I'm done. Could you be so kind, sir?" I gestured to the rack behind me, and he handed me a towel, but made no move to allow me any modesty with which to dry off, and for a moment, a glimmer of hope was risen, only to be quickly squashed by rational thought. I instead held the towel up over the water right about where my privates were, standing up and fastening the towel around my waist quickly.

"Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir?" I questioned, walking towards the mirror and my razor. After applying a hearty dose of shaving cream to my face, I reached for the straight razor.

"I played an awful second row today, didn't I?"

"No sir. Aside from a few positioning issues, you and Mr. Fink-Nottle did a splended job of holding the scrum together."

"Positioning problems?" He questioned.

"You did seem to have a bit of an issue finding a suitable hand hold." The razor had been set down on the sink as I could feel his presence behind me. And I wasn't entirely sure what was going on, and most certainly didn't want to be holding something sharp with the potential to cause grave mortal harm to either myself or especially to Mr. Wooster.

"I was under the impression that you didn't-" It was intended as a brave statement, I'm sure, considering that he was now pressed against my back, and whispering in my ear, but it had cut off with quite a squeak as what little Wooster courage there was tucked its tail between it's legs and ran off.

"I quite minded, sir." I watch his reaction in the mirror, not wanting to turn around and break whatever was going on between us. I saw the flash of fear in his eyes as he backed away, and felt my lips threatening to turn up into a smirk. "It's quite difficult to play a sport when someone is attempting lewd and lascivious acts on them on the pitch."

"Jeeves?"

"Yes sir?"

"Did you-did you enjoy-" He's stammering slightly, and I can only gasp when I feel a hand wrap around my thigh.

"It would have been much more enjoyed had it not been in the middle of a match, sir." I can't help but relax back against him as his hand works its way slowly up my thigh. At the moment I don't even care about the fact that three quarters of my face is still unshaven, only that he's got one hand very close to where I'd like his hand to be, and the other is wrapped around my chest, helping to hold me up against him as my knees are rapidly turning to jelly. I turn my head back to kiss him as his hand reaches right where I want it, and the sensation causes me to moan. I'm not far off already, just from having him there, and just as I'm about to finish...

The bathroom door bursts open, leaving me in quite the tizzy, as I realize that I'm still asleep in the bath, only this time in a much more compromising position than I had been in my fantasy. It takes everything I have to stop my head from whipping around, because I know that should I catch a glimpse of him, there, still sopping wet, that it would be enough to push me over the edge. I didn't even care that he was likely dripping water all over the flat. Instead, the only thing I cared about was sinking as far as I could into the tub, hoping that a few more inches of water above more sensitive regions would help to mask certain physical responses.

"You're still here!" It was a relieved shout.

"Yes, sir, I am. I'm quite sorry, I happened to doze off in the bath-" My apology was cut short when I heard him do an all but giddy jig on the border between carpet and tile.

"But you didn't leave! When you disappeared after I got in the bath, I thought you'd run off after I made you play some silly sport." I couldn't help the faint smile that played at the ability for one Mr. Wooster to jump to the worst conclusions possible. "You only fell asleep in the tub! What with chasing around after me all day, and being dragged into running back and forth down a pitch, I dare say you're quite deserving of a nap. Which, by the way, sounds like an bally brilliant idea. If you would be kind enough to wake me for dinner Jeeves?" I nodded, relieved for once, for his obtuseness.

"Yes, sir." It's a short order to dry off, and to shave, although there's a small shiver at the memory of the dream that had just passed, and had been so rudely interrupted by the object of said dream. The hand not currently holding the straight razor drifts, and my thighs slam roughly into the sink, ever careful of where I was. It simply would not do to leave any trace of oneself behind, after all. Not when one was supposed to very much be like a silent shadow, always there when one looks for it, but passing neatly in the background when one isn't.

My eyes drift shut, and the razor falls to the sink yet again, a slightly blissful smile on my face, when _he_ has to be positively damning again. I swear, that if I didn't care for him so, I would have left his employ a long period ago, because the man can be as absolutely infuriating as he is absolutely charming. And yours truly is not, in any form, a swearing man. At least this time, he merely calls from his own room, rather than happen to barge in yet again. I hurriedly change, at least into undershirt and trousers, and white shirt hanging unbuttoned from my frame, shaving cream hurriedly wiped off.

"You called, sir?" I asked, buttoning the shirt up tightly. There was a look of almost...disappointment on Mr. Wooster's face, and I wondered if I had dallied slightly too long in attempting to change. But the trousers, and the shorts beneath were doing a relatively decent job of hiding where my thoughts had been just a moment before.

"Yes, Jeeves. I was wondering if you could possibly get me a whiskey and soda?" I nodded, slipping away, finishing up the buttons on my shirt as I left, stopping only to grab the jacket and waistcoat from my room before mixing his drink, and bringing it to him. "Jeeves?" He asked as I handed him the drink.

"Yes, sir?"

"Be frank with me Jeeves. I played an awful second row, didn't I? I kept feeling as though Gussie and I would collapse the scrum, but I had no choice but to participate. Tuppy tells me I did well at it, but I can't tell if he was having a wheeze at my behalf, or if he actually thought I did well."

"You did not do poorly, sir." It was the truth, at any rate. Having been in a collapsed scrum before, I was only thankful that Misters Wooster and Fink-Nottle had not dragged the rest of the side, and with it, the other side, down with them.

"But I didn't do well, did I?"

"If you wish to continue playing second row, sir, I might advise learning how to properly position oneself. To diminsh the chance of pulling down the scrum, and lessining the strain on your loose forwards and especially your props." Yes, lessining the strain on the props indeed.

"You've played before, didn't you?"

"In primary school, yes." He nods at me, before opening his mouth again.

"What?"

"First row, sir." Having always been rather broad of shoulder and large of frame, first row had always suited me, even as a young boy. And even now, having grown into the broad of shoulder and large of frame, I found myself still playing the position, even if it was in a game I'd rather not have played at all.

"So you'd know, from a prop's point of view, how a second row player is supposed to play, correct?"

"It's been a long while since I've last played, sir." If I may say, one of my other talents is how to steer Mr. Wooster away from rather sensitive subject matters. Particularly when he starts getting close to anything that would possibly begin to make myself uncomfortable.

"Nonsense, playing rugby is like riding a bicycle, no matter how unpleasant you may find it, it comes back to you easily. Otherwise how could you have played so well?" I merely pursed my lips, no doubt having what he so fondly dubbed the 'stuffed frog expression' on my face.

"I do not think my performance was anything spectacular, sir."

"Rubbish, Jeeves, don't be an ass. You were good out there, as good as old Tuppy, I'd wager, and he's been playing since he was yea high." I merely shook my head, and backed away a step, intending to leave.

"It flatters me that you think so, sir, but my performance on the pitch was far from excellent."

"Oh, come now Jeeves, I'm sure you could at least tell me what a chap's supposed to do when playing lock."

"It seems to me that you had the gist of the position down, quite well sir."

"You just said I'm rubbish with the positioning. Can't you help me with that?"

"I'm afraid, that without at the very least, another lock and someone to hook the ball, it's quite difficult to tell you how to properly get into place."

"Nonsense, the chair could make a stand-in as a hooker, and even as a stand in for another second row." He gestured out towards the arm chair that could, in fact, unfortunately double as both objects, as he could grasp the front of the cushion in an approximate simulation of holding fast to the other man playing second row, and it was something solid with which to get the head position right.

"Sir, using the furniture for rugby practice is rather ill advised."

"It's simply learning where I should be to set up the scrum, not as though I'm using it to teach tackling."

"Besides sir, it seems that you are lacking the proper attire to practice sport."

"Again, Jeeves, it's not as though I need something thats durable enough to put up with being held and tackled to the ground by, or hoisted up into the air with, which I dare say, was something I missed in today's game-I'm much more used to playing union rules, not league."

"Sir, I do believe we were playing some sort of twisted amalgation of both forms of the game."

"Yes, well, there was a lack of line-outs regardless, I rather like being launched into the air." I was rather glad about this lack of development in the game, as I would, no doubt, be enlisted to help hoist Mr. Wooster in the air. And the general practice for doing such involved putting my hands far closer to parts of Mr. Wooster than would have made me quite comfortable. Lifting someone by the hem of their shorts was not exactly a way to try and avoid as much contact as possible in the course of the day. "I'm sure we can make do with what we're wearing, it is just a positioning walk-through, after all."

"Sir-" I tried, attempting to get him off of the idea, without making my own uncomfortable feelings towards the idea known. But he'd already clambored out of the bed, and stood near the chair, motioning me over. "Sir, this is not a wise idea, I must caution you against it."

"Well, pshaw to your caution, and come over here, and tell me how I'm binding on wrong." He'd all but pulled me into a spot near the chair, and I merely rolled my eyes and set my teeth, all with my back to him, sure that if I showed any sort of emotion that it would give Mr. Wooster a heart attack. The idea was briefly considered as a way to get out of the current predicament, but I decided that spending the next week nursing Mr. Wooster back to health would be even more unenjoyable that pointing out what he was doing wrong one time, and leaving the subject be.

One arm went across the back of the chair, in a loose imitation of how the front rows would bind, and I frowned at the idea of how much ironing it will take to get the creases out of pants that were clearly not meant to be used in rugby demonstrations. There was the sound of him dropping to one knee behind me, and I turned for a moment, under the guise of making sure that he looked as though he was in the proper position, one eyebrow slightly raised, and I could tell that he was able to infer that I was most certainly Not Happy about this turn of events.

But he said nothing about things, and instead, his head came to a rest between the outside of my thigh and the chair. "Right, so is this what I do?" I nodded, before realizing that he can't see me.

"Yes, sir. Now attempt to get the free hand as close to your ear as possible." I felt a nod, and suddenly there his hand was again, fumbling around in a highly innapropriate manner as it clawed its way up, pulling my leg inwards enough to nearly set me off balance. "Generally, it is not wise, sir, to pull the prop over."

"Oh, right, sorry then." And the arm got slightly looser, his hand finding purchase on the outside of my trouser pocket. Which, when wearing proper rugby attire, is a fairly harmless spot. Much more harmless than where he was grabbing at earlier, although it was often preferred to get the arm all the way to the waistband, as it decreased the chances of ruining the shorts. "How's this then?"

"Slightly better than earlier today, sir." It was hard to talk through clenched teeth without alerting him that anything was wrong, and harder still to talk at all, considering how close he was to a portion of my anatomy that not very long before had been rudely interrupted from getting attention. "It seems that when exhaustion is not taking over, sir, that your binding on isn't entirely horrible." He shifted slightly, and I felt his shoulder digging into the back of my thigh, no doubt practicing standing from the kneeling position, and felt his forearm brush the aforementioned area of the anatomy, as his arm flapped out to the side, rather much like a bird about to take wing.

Upon attempting to say something about not acting like a rooster, I found myself suddenly quite unable to speak, and the grip on the back of the chair became one that I was sure could easily break 's a moment of nerves, when the fight-or-flight response is triggered, as blood rushed back to the place were it had been pooling some fifteen minutes before events transpired, and it was all I could do to not attempt to bolt with Mr. Wooster still very firmly attached to my leg, and myself very firmly attached to the furniture.

The flapping stops, and there's a moment of panic, wondering if he happened to have found me out, but instead I feel the shoulder drive further, and realize he's simply found himself a foothold on the carpet, and is driving forward. "Sir-" I manage to find my voice as I'm nearly sent toppling to the ground, not expecting all ten stone of one Mr. Wooster attempting to push me forward while being grounded to a chair. "I think, sir, that you've quite got the hang of how to play second row-"

He releaseed his grip on my pocket, and went to remove his hand, the back of which happened to brush against the one thing I'd have rather not have had him notice. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, try to come up with some excuse, but instead found any and all rational thought dissapearing as the back of the hand pauses, before rubbing from base to tip, as though to verify just what it was feeling. My mouth went dry, there's no way to write off what it is that's going on, no suitable excuse to come up with, no steering him down the wrong path.

Out of all the possible outcomes for this situation, however, Mr. Wooster would be the one to pick the one that I wouldn't have expected. That is, the one where instead of withdrawing, and fleeing to another room, or becoming outraged, or asking for my letter of resignation, he chose to take the matters into his own hands, in a rather literal translation of the phrase.

"Jeeves?" He asked, letting go, if only to stand up.

"Sir?" The normally stoic voice of one Reginald Jeeves was not much more than a faint squeak, but then again, Reginald Jeeves had no clue how to respond in this situation, having never been in it before.

"Did I-I mean to say-am I the cause of-" He gestured vaguely at the lower half of my body, and I nodded, gravely. The expected reaction, again, was nowhere to be found. No running off, or shrieking, or threats to alert the constabulary, or going and packing my own bags for me, in the hopes to see me off all the sooner. Instead, a sort of arrogant grin came across his face-the same one that he tends to get when he happens to stumble upon the proper solution to a problem himself. "Good to know, then."

"Sir?" I questioned, finding my vocal chords working again, but instead of any sort of answer to any number of the questions currently rolling through my head, I found rational thought cut off again by Mr. Wooster happening to all but throw himself against me, his lips on mine. "Sir-" I repeated, but only when we came up for air, not sure if the previous fantasy had been but simply a fantasy within a fantasy, and if it was, wanting to draw out the primary fantasy for as long as possible. "-Sir, if I may ask-"

"You would ask questions at a time like this, wouldn't you?" He sounded impatient, as though he'd been told that he can't have his dessert until he's finished all of his dinner.

"I am merely attempting to figure out just what is going on at the moment, sir."

"What's going on, is that obviously, for once, a Wooster plan required none of your intervention to go off without a hitch. And the general idea is for this to proceed in _that_ direction." I followed the hand sticking out to find it pointing to the bedroom. Obviously, for once, a Wooster plan going off without a hitch?

"You mean to say, sir, that you _planned_ this?" I couldn't help the incredious note that creeps into my voice.

"Indeed. It didn't take much to talk Ronnie Fish into spending the day in the countryside with his wife, and thus, unbalancing the teams. Which turned into coercing you into playing, although I was starting to get a trifle fearful near the end of the match when you started to readjust my arm for me." I wasn't quite sure who was more in line for the heart attack first, myself, for his plan, which actually was rather clever; or him, for the fact that I was so agog at his description of the plan that I was sure the stoic front had been tossed out with the evening papers, and thus every bit shock was showing clearly.

"It was starting to get quite uncomfortable, sir."

"That was the general idea, Jeeves. Testing the waters, of sorts, under the guise of being able to write it off as merely being rubbish at second row. Although I could have done without the broken nose."

"Sir, if I may say so, that was a very clever plan." He looked positively chuffed at the compliment, and if he wasn't very careful, the grin would have easily cleft his face in two. So I decided, that since he looked like he was about to sever his face in two, that the best course of action would be to remove the grin, in the most pleasurable way.

"Now, I have one more clever plan, and then I fear the quota for clever Wooster plans of the month is depleted."

"Which is what, sir?" I asked, as he pulled away.

"That this proceeds to the bedroom." I could only smile slightly in return, and follow him inside.


End file.
